Frontier Justice - 01 (17 page)

“Not me.” He loaded his own pack and slipped it on his back.

She climbed out of the van and came to stand beside him.

“You’re telling me that if a horde of zombies started climbing out of these cars, you wouldn’t be afraid?”

“Nope. Not one bit.” He started walking down the interstate and she followed close behind him.

She seemed beside herself. “A horde? A whole horde?”

Tanner grinned.

They walked for more than twenty minutes without finding a car that was both easy to access and devoid of the dead. It seemed that everyone had been trying to escape Atlanta, for obvious reasons, and was inadvertently trapped in the mass exodus. Like a crowded theater in which someone shouts, “Fire,” panic had claimed its fair share of victims.

The whole time they walked, Tanner had the nagging feeling that they were being followed. He didn’t bother stopping to survey the cluster of overturned cars and debris. The road had become so utterly dark that it was like swimming through a barrel of oil. The only light was the soft glow of moonlight and the colorful glints as it bounced off car reflectors.

The most disturbing part, however, was not the darkness. It was the strangeness of the sounds around them. Their footsteps crunched across asphalt covered in broken glass. Cars creaked and moaned, protesting their unfortunate doom. And a steady wind whistled through the wreckage like the haunting cry of a sleepless witch.

Out of the blue, Samantha asked, “Do you think I’m annoying?”

“Yes.”

“No, really.”

“Yes, really.”

“Humph.”

They walked a little longer.

“You don’t like me then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So, you do like me?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“You can’t have it both ways. Either you do—”

A low growl sounded from up ahead. Tanner stepped directly in front of Samantha.

“Hush, now.”

The growl sounded again, this time closer. Another growl came from their left. And then another behind them. Tanner saw the unmistakable shine of eyes coming out of the dark.

Scanning the cars around him, he looked for a place to hide. The best he could find was a green Mustang with a badly smashed front end. Without saying a word, he scooped Samantha up in his arms and ran for the car. He could hear the unmistakable scratching of something coming up behind them. Tearing open the door, he tossed her in and fell in behind her. Powerful jaws grabbed the cuff of his jeans and tried to pull him out. He kicked backward, missing his target but tearing his clothing free of the creature’s mouth.

The head of an enormous pit bull terrier shoved its way into the car, biting viciously at his kicking leg. Tanner sat up, grabbed the door handle, and tried to slam it shut. It closed on the dog’s neck, and the animal yelped in pain. He opened it a few inches to see if the dog would retreat. It didn’t. He slammed the door again, this time so hard that it broke the animal’s neck. It dropped instantly onto the seat, as if a switch had been flipped off in its brain.

Tanner kicked the dog’s body out of the car and quickly shut the mangled door.

“Are you okay?” asked Samantha, her voice shaking with fear.

Tanner felt his leg. His pants were wet with saliva as well as torn in a couple of places, but he was uninjured.

“I’m good.”

Another dog suddenly sprang out of the dark, its front legs propping against Samantha’s window. It barked ferociously, large strands of slobber spraying onto the glass.

She recoiled, pressing back hard against Tanner.

“They can’t get in,” he said, wrapping his arms around her.

A large German shepherd jumped onto the hood of the car, barking and scratching at the windshield.

Samantha buried her face in Tanner’s chest.

“But what if they do?”

He pulled her close.

“Then I’ll kill them.”

CHAPTER

16

M
ason decided to stay in Boone for the night. Not only would it save him the long, slow drive back to the cabin, but it would also allow him to check out the town after dark. At Father Paul’s insistence, he agreed to sleep in one of the Church’s small dorm rooms once reserved for nuns.

A few hours past nightfall, Mason and Bowie went for a walk around town. Mason carried a small flashlight but kept it off except when navigating particularly congested areas. Bowie stayed close by his side, and Mason wasn’t sure if that was because he was being protective, or simply afraid of exploring a town that was creepier than the Byberry Mental Asylum.

They walked down King Street for the better part of a mile before coming upon a group of men carefully making their way along the sidewalk. Several of them carried pillowcases with goods stuffed inside; others were pushing shopping carts. They stayed close to one another and continually surveyed the street. When they saw Mason and Bowie, they came to a complete stop.

Mason clicked on his flashlight and pointed it at the men’s feet so as not to blind them.

“Good evening,” he said.

After a brief pause, one of the men said, “Evening, Marshal. We’re glad to have you out here.”

The men hustled past, obviously unsure that his presence in any way guaranteed their safety. Bowie sniffed them as they passed but gave only a soft growl.

Mason continued on. The night was cool and extremely quiet. The nearly impenetrable darkness was only broken by flickers of flashlights, candles, and lanterns as people made preparations for the night.

After another few blocks, Bowie cut in front of Mason and stopped, his nose lifted high in the air.

“What is it, boy?”

Bowie looked left and right, taking short sniffs of the cold night air.

Suddenly, there was movement from across the street. Mason instinctively drew his pistol with one hand and flicked on his flashlight with the other. Bringing them together, he scanned left and right, the white light forcing its way through the darkness like a train through fog.

A hunched figure stumbled out of a car and fell to the ground. Bowie leaped forward and let out a tremendous bark. Mason moved a few steps closer, keeping both his light and Supergrade pointed at the man. The figure scrambled to his feet, standing bent over and shielding his eyes from the blinding light.

“No, no, no,” he mumbled.

As Mason got closer, he saw that the stranger was cloaked in a white blanket, resembling something that might be worn by ancient Arthurian druids. The man held his hands up in an attempt to shield himself from view, but, in doing so, revealed skin covered in a thick layer of scabs.

“Don’t kill me, Marshal,” he begged. His voice was garbled and hard to understand as if he was chewing a mouthful of worms.

“Why would I kill you?”

“I’m an abomination,” he whined.

“You survived the pox?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Let me see you.”

“Only if you promise not to kill me.”

“I’m no murderer.”

“Not even a mercy killing. Promise me.”

It pained Mason to hear the terrible anguish in the man’s voice.

“I promise.”

The man stood and pulled the blanket down to his shoulders. What Mason saw was nearly indescribable. Every square inch of the man’s flesh was covered with layers of festering sores, blisters upon blisters that had ruptured, only to reform again. His eyes were opaque and milky, his hands twisted from advanced rheumatoid arthritis.

Mason hardly heard himself utter the words, “My God.”

The man quickly pulled the blanket back over his head.

“You promised.”

Mason struggled to collect himself. “I would no sooner kill you than I would kill my dog.” He patted Bowie to emphasize the point and to let the animal know that they were not in immediate danger.

The man scoffed with doubt.

“What’s your name?” asked Mason.

“Erik. And I know who you are. You’re the lawman from the church. I watched you from the shadows.”

“Who’s caring for you, Erik?”

He laughed, but it sounded sick and cruel, like a torturer who had discovered a new instrument of pain.

“They would sooner put a torch to me than offer a single drop of water or morsel of food.”

While Mason had heard nothing of such ostracizing, he could perhaps understand it. Fear could drive people to do indefensible things.

“Are you alone?”

The man looked left and right.

“No,” he muttered. “There are others.” Without another word, he turned and shuffled away into the darkness.

Mason wanted to follow him, to offer Erik something that would ease his suffering. But as he watched the man disappear into the shadows, he found himself without word or action.

It took nearly an hour of walking in the cool nighttime air for Mason to clear the image of Erik from his mind. No one should have to live with such disfigurement. He thought back to the three people lying dead in the truck near his cabin. It made sense now why they might have felt compelled to commit suicide. Death was sometimes preferable to a life of misery.

A light coming from a major side street drew his attention. He turned and motioned for Bowie to follow. When he got close enough, he could make out the Watauga County Hospital. The large overhead sign was dark, but a glow of light came from inside the entrance to the emergency room.

Mason approached the sliding glass doors and saw that they were propped open with two large garbage cans.

“Wait here,” he told Bowie.

The dog cocked its head sideways.

“Don’t play dumb,” Mason said, walking into the emergency room.

Bowie flopped down behind one of the garbage cans with a loud sigh.

The scene in the emergency room could have been that of hospital in a Third World country. Lighting was provided purely by candles in glass jars placed strategically around the large room. A dozen or more people were sitting or standing, obviously awaiting their turn for medical care. An old woman wearing cowboy boots and scrubs sat at a small folding table immediately inside the door. She had on a disposable facemask and vinyl gloves and was busy writing something in a logbook. She was humming a song that Mason would have sworn was “Sweet Home Alabama.”